


However Posed

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 01:25:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5724274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He lives to serve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	However Posed

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a way to process my grief over the loss of our Starman. I tend to rely on humor in situations where grief is present, so there's a bit of that reflected here. 
> 
> R.I.P. David Bowie. You were so much to so many. We miss you.

Jareth is a king of true power. His skill with magic, his ability to command, lead, and manipulate any situation into one that leaves him victorious is known throughout the Underground. All who know him, allies and enemies alike, are aware of his thunderous nature, a true King who demands respect, fear, and reverence. He is wise, cunning, brave, and fierce, and his subjects know better than to disobey him. He is a harsh but fair ruler, as is the nature of the Fae, and he sits upon his stone-back throne, looking over his kingdom, daring any to oppose him.

No one does.

Except her.

The Lady, sometimes otherwise called The Champion or The Almost-Queen (though few are brave enough to dare say that one when she is within earshot) is the only one who can oppose the king and survive. She is the only one who can oppose him at all. Lesser kings have made minor transgressions against him and suffered his wrath but The Lady can insult, snarl, demand, and outright disagree with him and the only repercussion is that the King glares at her.

The goblins take to going to her when they need something, claiming that she is better at explaining their needs and winning the king’s favor than they are. The Lady knows exactly what they’re doing, knows exactly why they request her aid, and when she thinks an idea has merit she presents it to Jareth, telling him what she wants, and the king obeys with a sigh.

When she’s on the cusp of eighteen The Lady saunters into the throne room, demure and sweet looking in her tea length dress and cardigan, and informs the Goblin King that her step-mother is insisting she attend her senior prom.

“With a boy,” she stresses, the word almost a curse on her pink lips. Jareth feels jealousy clench his gut, disgusted and infuriated at the thought of another touching his Lady, his Champion. “So since I have to go, I figured you may as well take me.”

The jealousy melts into a simmering thrill of delight. He’s vaguely familiar with the term; knows it to be a ball for teenagers seen as a right of passage. The fact that his Sarah is uninterested with the tradition makes him smile, and the fact that she’s deigned to seek out his company for the evening makes him practically burst with joy. His Sarah, the Champion and may-as-well-be-Queen of the Labyrinth, has asked him to be her date.

“As always, Sarah, I live to serve.”

“Good,” she says, pleased in a way that hints she expected no other outcome. She turns to leave, her visit today apparently finished, then calls over her shoulder, “I’m wearing blue; just so you know.”

* * *

Not long after the prom night, which had left much to be desired and ended with the two of them whisked off to his castle where he threw her a proper ball, she enters the throne room once more, several thick envelops threatening to spill from her arms. The goblin’s catch the ones that do fall and follow her, trailing at her ankles like chipper pups as she approaches the throne and dumps the letters out on the floor. Jareth looks at her with interest.

“Littering in my throne room, Sarah? I’m offended.”

“They’re here,” she says without preamble, and Jareth instantly sobers. He dismisses the goblins who had followed her in, and magically locks them inside the room.

“You didn’t open them,” he remarks, nudging a sealed envelop with his foot.

“Because we’re opening them together,” Sarah says as if it were the most obvious thing ever. “You’re going to help me decide.”

He lowers himself to the ground, a place quite unseemly for a king, and slices open an envelope with a long finger. “I know nothing about your world’s universities,” he remarks as he unfolds the paper. Several colorful brochures fall out in his lap and he sneers at them, as if they had crossed a personal boundary.

“So?” Sarah says, dropping to the ground across from him. She reaches for an envelop and rips it open with less precision and ease as the king across from her did. “I still want your opinion.”

It’s extremely high praise from the headstrong Champion that has taken over his realm and won his subjects hearts. He’ll never tell her he thinks she should skip college altogether and simply begin training for her inevitable Queen-hood. But he pushes that thought aside as easily as he does the acceptance letter for a place called Boston University, and decides that Sarah needs this more than she needs royalty thrust upon her. There will be time for that. And at the very least, she wants his opinion on colleges.

So he plucks the acceptance letter from her hands and skims over it. The location of the school is of little consequence. She’ll merely have to say her Right Words to reach him and his denizens, and whether in New York, California, or London, she’ll be just as close to him as ever.

They sort through the letters and at last Sarah holds up three. “I like these best,” she says, “Tell me which one you prefer.”

He studies them for a moment, thinks long and hard, going only by the name and what little information is provided on the information packets within and they ultimately decide that New York University is the best choice for what she wants.

She thanks Jareth with a hug, gathers her letters, and leaves.

A year later when she is in her dorm room, roommate not yet arrived, she calls him to her with tears in her weary eyes.

“I want to go home,” she whispers as she collapses into his arms and cries. Jareth knows that is not her wish: he would know if it were genuine. She’s merely homesick, not used to being so far away from her father, step-mother, and Toby.

“I know,” he says instead, because it’s what she wants to hear. He can’t take her back to her childhood room- far too many questions would arise if he did so- so he takes her to his castle beyond the Labyrinth and Sarah spends her first night of her college career in the Goblin King’s bed, sleeping away the loneliness that has long consumed the king who watches her from his desk, wishing she would demand he come to her.

He lives to serve. But she has not commanded, so he will remain where he is.

* * *

She’s twenty-one and doesn’t want to celebrate with college friends- few that she has- and instead insists that the Goblin King celebrate her official coming-of-age. She wants a night in the castle with Hoggle, Ludo, and Didymus as she tries her first sip of Goblin ale, but Jareth has never been one for small affairs and instead has his subjects put together an entire festival in her honor. It hadn’t taken much convincing. The goblins love their Lady, and the thought of doing something that might please her makes them work with much more determination than any command the king has given them otherwise.

Sarah is delighted by the surprise, standing at the edge of the little village east of the castle where the festival was to be held. She’s on the king’s arm, which is of a surprise to no one, and her three closest companions are at her side as well, looking on with wonder at what has been crafted for their might-as-well-be-Queen.

Music strikes up in the distance and Didymus requests the first dance. Sarah hesitates only enough that Jareth notices, then allows the knight to escort her to the gathering in the town square where other couples are dancing gaily to the lively tune. Next she dances with Hoggle, and she and Ludo stomp happily together, the large beast not quite able to pick up the delicate steps. Sarah laughs, eyes shining and curls bouncing around her as Ludo spins her, her laugh loud and piercing, its own melody meshing with the flutes and fiddles that whisper their way in the air.

They follow the human tradition of a birthday cake- chocolate with strawberry icing, her favorite- and the goblins quickly become hyped up on so much sugar that the dancing resumes with a merry cheer. Some of the goblins offer Sarah gifts; they are not the traditional gifts of her world, but rather pretty stones, flowers, and small gems mined from the caves beneath the Labyrinth. Some smaller goblins offer her feathers tied together with string, and whereas Jareth thinks these gifts are not worthy of The Lady, Sarah delights in them, giving her friends hugs each time one of them tugs on her skirt to shyly hand her their present.

Eventually she’s dragged away from Jareth to dance some more and it’s only when the moon is at its highest does she skip up to him, grab his gloved hands in hers, dirty from handling her gifts and goblins, and pulls him with her.

“Dance with me!”

Even if he did not delight in dancing- and he loves it as much as any of his kind, he would be powerless to resist her. He follows her out to the square where others are dancing, goblins and Fair Folk and other creatures alike. Many make room for them, the king and almost-queen surrounded by all those who wish to watch a dance that has not happened since the Lady’s first journey through the Labyrinth. Those who had seen the dance recall it with dizzy amazement, the beauty of the two together as their king spun the Champion around the room. There is no bubble this time, no peaches to coerce, and rather than be lulled by the sweet allure of sleep and dreams, Sarah is the one luring the king, her eyes sparkling bright as the moon.

The dance is quick-paced, fun, and lively. Sarah smiles brilliantly at Jareth as they spin and move together, and the goblins all watch as their rulers dance about freely. The king and the Lady, who has flowers in her hair and stars in her eyes.

When the song ends Jareth catches Sarah in his arms as she stumbles drunk not on ale but laughter. He leads her over to one of the many decorated tables that has been constructed for this very night and she plops down on a seat lacking any of the grace someone of her unofficial ranking should.

“That was fun!” She declares, turning to Jareth as she brushes off her skirt. “Thank you for this. It’s wonderful.”

Her praise is worth more to him than all the magic in the Underground. The revelry continues, most of the guests oblivious to the king and Lady as Didymus declares a jousting competition to the excitement of the others. Standing, Jareth offers Sarah his hand and when she takes it without delay he thinks that perhaps it is the greatest gift she could ever give him. He says nothing of it however, and instead leads her away from the ruckus to a quiet area not far away, and turns to face her.

“How are you enjoying your festival?”

He recalls a time when he asked her a similar question. Her answer then had been smug, cocky. Now he merely asks because he cares of her happiness, and her answer is to hum contentedly. “This is the best present I’ve ever received,” she declares, but it’s without a childlike exuberance that comes with her sometimes exaggerations (she is an actress, after all). Instead it’s spoken softly, like a secret meant only for him and her smile is soft, sincere, as if the festival truly is the greatest thing she’s ever received.

“Then I can only pray this meets with the same approval.” He tucks his hands behind his back and when he brings them back to the front, he’s holding a small box, elegantly wrapped and topped with a glimmering silver bow.

“Jareth,” she breathes, “The festival was more than enough. You don’t have to-”

“I am a king with magic eternal at my fingertips,” he says dismissively, “And as such it is my pleasure to offer you this.”

“A present?” She says, stressing the word, calling back to the first time he gave her a gift.

“Hopefully more happily received,” he tells her, inching the box closer to her. “If you would?”

She takes it, going back and forth between eyeing him and the box, then she pulls the top off, breath escaping her as her now-wide eyes take in what’s inside.

A necklace, simple in nature but meaningful in ways few would understand. The chain is gold, thin but strong, sparkling in a way that hints there is magic entwined within the cord. The pendant is a simple sphere, easily explained away as a pretty bauble, and nothing more. But just like the crystals that Jareth summons to tease and taunt, distract and delight, the crystal on the end of the chain is more than it seems, and Sarah’s fingers trace over the glass, gasping in delight when a spark of magic flickers through the orb, making it shine a pretty hint of blue.

“Wow,” Sarah says, then looks up to Jareth who is staring at her appreciatively. She carefully untucks the necklace from the box, bending down to place the box at her feet, then stands and holds it out to him. “Put it on me?”

He takes the necklace without a word, and motions for her to turn away. She does, then lifts up her hair so that it’s out of the way. The feeling of warm leather brushes her skin and she tries to keep a sigh hidden, but he hears her all too well, and cannot help but let out his own sigh of relief at the fact that his touch inspires some response from her.

When the chain is clasped, he takes his time moving his hands away from her. Fingers trail slowly, ghosting over her shoulders before removing his hands entirely, and in the starlit night he can see the evidence of chills on her skin.

“Happy Birthday, Sarah,” he whispers as he leans closer to her, his front to her back. He doesn’t wrap her in his arms as he so desperately wishes to, but his cheek is pressed to her, lips resting just behind her ear. She trembles enough so that he can feel it, then whispers back, her command for the visit: “Say it again.”

“Say what?”

“My name. No one ever says it the way you do. Say it again.” Her voice trembles, words rushing out quickly as if she fears that if she doesn’t say them fast enough they’ll retreat into the corners of her mind, afraid to come out.

“With pleasure, Sarah,” Jareth murmurs, taking great pride in the effect this has on the woman before him. “Sarah,” he whispers, then again. “Sarah.” He punctuates her name the fourth time with a kiss against her ear. “Sarah.”

He’ll say her name a thousand times if it’s what she wants. He finds he wants to do it regardless.

* * *

Diplomacy is terrible, Jareth thinks as he reads over a letter sent from a potential ally located in the Southlands. He despises the Queen of that realm, a haughty woman who wears such tacky fashion as to make Jareth’s eyes hurt. But she is a good ruler for all her personal faults, and Jareth would rather her be an ally than not.

So he struggles through his response, wasting more paper and time than he would like, one hand scrawling on the parchment, the other holding his head as he knows a headache is soon approaching. Just as he thinks he can stomach the asinine response he’s composed, the door to his private study swings open and he jerks his head back in surprise, cursing as it throbs from within.

“I thought I told you not to disturb-”

Sarah is before him, dressed in denim and a thick sweater. Her hair is free and wild- just how he likes it- and that same determination in her eyes that is always present flickers dangerously bright as she stands before him, looking as if she were about to face a monster.

“Sarah.”

“I want you to kiss me,” she says simply, though she doesn’t move from where she seems to be rooted. It almost wouldn’t surprise Jareth to glance down and see that roots are in fact wrapped around her feet, but his eyes are glued to her lips, bright with red lipstick.

“What?” He hears himself say, stunned and confused, two things he despises being.

“I. Want you. To kiss me,” she says, punctuating each word as if she were explaining a difficult concept to a child. “I’m almost twenty-two and I’ve never been kissed-” she stops, makes a face that indicates she’s only just remembered a detail of semi-importance, “Well, I’ve been kissed on stage. But that doesn’t count. I’ve never had a real, non-staged kiss.”

She stands with regal impatience, hands on her hips, the left one slightly jutted out, and watches him as he remains bound to his seat. He waits a moment, silently allows himself to collect his thoughts, then leans back in the chair, crosses one leg over the other, and studies her. “Why the sudden urge to kiss me?”

“Because you’ve not done it yet,” she says simply, “And I’m tired of waiting for you to just do it already.”

“What makes you think I want to kiss you?” He asks smoothly, watching as her hands tremble at her sides and she quickly brings them up to cross over her chest.

“Don’t you?”

He tilts his head to the side, brows scrunching as he studies her further. He already knows the answer- has long known the answer. But he likes watching her squirm, likes to see how she’ll handle him when he does something unexpected.

“I suppose,” he says at long last, his words lazy and half-uninterested, “Regardless,” he stands and slinks over to her as if she were his prey. She’s not. She’s never been so weak as to be prey. Nor is he a predator. But he likes to think he is sometimes, likes to imagine a scenario similar to those days in her Labyrinth when he had the illusion of power to hold over her.

He rather likes them as equals now.

“I live to serve, my precious Sarah. So if it’s a kiss you want-” he spreads his arms open, waiting her to step to him, “Then by all means.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

He feels a slight disappointment at her sudden change of mind. “No?”

“I want you to kiss me.”

“I see,” he says, hand on his chin as he regards her. His necklace hangs from her neck as it has ever since the night he wrapped the chain around her throat and it’s quite delightful to see that she keeps it on her. “I rather thought you would approach your first kiss as you do all things: on your own terms and exactly how you want it. I didn’t take you for the type to be swept up in someone’s arms and kissed senseless.” He gives her an appreciative grin, “You’re far too headstrong for that.”

“Normally I’d agree,” she says with that air of confidence she always bolsters in his presence sometimes. “But maybe I want the sweeping and senselessness and romance of all that entails.”

“You’ve been reading too many romance novels,” he remarks, though he knows that isn’t true. Sarah is a romantic at heart, buried underneath the headstrong, independent, ‘I can take care of myself’ attitude. But she doesn’t read the harlequin novels of her world. Instead she rejoices in love and beauty and kindness; she gives all those things in spades to his people, which is why they adore her so. He’s heard talk of the goblins wanting to erect a statue of her in the square to commemorate her triumph in the Labyrinth. He wonders if they’ll ask her to ask him, and if she would dare make a request of a statue of herself.

She was selfish once, as a child. But she is neither a child nor selfish anymore, and so he’s not quite certain what she’ll do when one of his subjects is brave enough to approach her on the topic.

“I’ve done no such thing and you know it.”

“Then one must wonder why the sudden desire for sweeping kisses in the arms of your old arch-nemesis.”

Sarah scoffs in amusement at that, flipping her hair back behind her shoulders with a delicate sweep of her hand. “Because,” she says, sounding as if she has considered every counterpoint he might make on the matter and has a perfect response to each, “That’s the way these things are done.”

He smiles at that, genuine affection filling his heart in a way that he has long wished to feel. He adores this girl, this woman before him who is so certain about him but uncertain about so many other things; who sweeps through his lands like a hurricane that goblins chase for the thrill. She is his queen, his match, his love, and the thought that she might finally be opening up to the idea herself pushes him forward. He takes her in his arms, lifts her up so that her toes barely brush the stone floor and the look on his face is feral.

“Well, if that’s the way it is done, then that is the way we must do it.”

His lips are on hers in an instant. Soft pressure to prevent alarm, gentle movements against her own lips that are smeared slightly when he pulls away to look at her before he takes her mouth in his once more. She is warm, sweet, and so light in his arms. Her arms lift to wind around his neck, one clutching his shoulder as the other grips his hair and he’s never been fond of others touching him but he thinks he rather likes this, and so he turns and sets Sarah on the edge of his desk, all without losing the connection between them, which has grown from warm to scalding.

She sighs against him, content and Jareth is hard pressed to think of any moment in his endless days and years of life that has been more satisfying than this. It’s such a simple pleasure, a kiss. He’s shared many in his life, but none quite so delectable as this one; none have ever been so sweet, so enjoyable, so simply right. He’s longed for this, longed for such privilege to be granted and now it’s here, real and wonderful than anything he ever dared contemplate. Jareth doesn’t wish; they are lost on him. But if he could, he could not have wished for a more perfect feeling than her lips heavy against his, inexperienced but oh so deliciously eager.

When they break away at last, Sarah’s eyes are wide and dark, chest heaving, and red lips ruined under his own ministrations. She blinks up at him, giggles, and lifts a hand to wipe at his mouth. “Oops,” she says, turning her hand to face him so that he can see the smearing of red that was left on his own. It’s faint but there, and Jareth thinks he would have no problem strutting about his kingdom with red painted lips, so long as the artist who stains them is the woman before him.

“Was that sufficient, Precious?” He asks, watching as she stares at his mouth, her own slightly parted from exhaustion and desire.

She catches herself, then meets his eye with that same determined look that commands his subjects, his Labyrinth, and himself. “I may be new to this,” she says, “But I’m certain you can muster more sweeping than that.”

“What does my lady order of me, then?”

“Kiss me again,” she says, “And really mean it this time.”

He lifts one hand to her chin, tilting it up so she can see the glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “I live to serve,” he says, and then he kisses her again.

* * *

 

She’s twenty-six when she bursts into the throne room in a dark blue, unflattering gown and ridiculous square hat. “I graduated!” She declares, practically leaping into Jareth’s arms, who sweeps her up in delight and spins her around.

“I know,” he laughs, “I was there.”

“I know,” she repeats, breaking away from him, tearing the hat off her head, which leaves some strands sticking up all around her head, “But it’s exciting! I have a Masters. I….I finally did it, Jareth!”

She’s back in his arms again, thrilled and excited and plain tickled. Jareth understands the significance even as it is somewhat lost on him, but he sees the accomplishment for what it is, and is so very proud of his basically-already-queen.

“You did,” he agrees, watching as Sarah struggles to yank off the atrocious piece of fabric to reveal a lovely olive dress underneath. She drops it to the floor where goblins instantly begin tugging on it and filling it up from the inside, all clamoring that they ‘grad-ee-ate-it’ too.

_“Whose Grad-ee and what did he eat?_ ” One asks curiously, and is subsequently bonked on the head by an older, wiser goblin.

Sarah laughs at their antics and steps closer to Jareth, who accepts her into his arms with a kiss to her temple. “And what does my lady command of me?” He asks, “Surely you wish to celebrate?”

“Hoggle is planning a party later,” she whispers, not wanting the goblins to hear and decide that the poor caretaker needs any ‘help’. “I thought you and I could celebrate together first.”

Jareth is quite pleased with the sound of that and awaits further instruction. “That village where my festival is held,” she starts, and without needing another word, Jareth whisks them out of the throne room and to the outskirts of the village, which is surprised to see the King and pretty-much-already-our-queen.

Offering her his arm, the two walk together past the village to the place they frequent every year on Sarah’s Day, the yearly celebration of the nearly-queen’s birth. Sarah lets go of Jareth’s arm and walks forward several steps, then stops and turns.

“Why do you always do everything I say?” She asks quizzically. Jareth has long been expecting the question, but he can’t imagine why she would bring it up today.

“I live to serve,” he says, his default and genuine answer.

Rolling her eyes, Sarah gives him that look. The one that suggests she’s going to make him miserable until she gets exactly what she wants. “Why, though?”

Sighing with great reluctance, Jareth moves to a fallen over tree and leans against it. “You know why.”

“What? The whole, ‘fear me, love me,’ thing?”

His look is weary and slightly annoyed. “That would be the ‘thing’, yes.”

She seems pleased with his answer and moves closer to him, certain, confident, and dangerous. She presses against him and he is compelled by her nearness to take her into his arms. “You know I don’t fear you, right?”

He shrugs, “I’ve not yet given you reason to.”

She hums a noncommittal response to that and carries on, “You know I won’t do what you say.”

“You never have,” he agrees. It’s true. She’s as stubborn as they come and if he can convince her of anything it’s a day to mark in history.

“I do love you, though.”

Hearing her say those words always makes him feel….good. He can’t think of a more fitting word, despite the numerous poetic and elaborate terms that exist. Her love makes him feel good.

“As I love you.”

That earns him a quick kiss, far too short and chaste for his liking. His preferred kisses from her are raw, heated, and needy. He likes to tease her until the point when she can’t stand to hear him speak any longer, and the only way that is certain to shut him up is to kiss him. He likes her annoyed with him when she kisses him. The fire she breathes into him in those moments charges his magic and renews his strength.

“And you know I don’t want you to be my slave, right? That’s hardly fair on your end.”

“You and your talk of ‘fairness’,” he laughs, “Perhaps you truly are Fae and we just don’t know it yet.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and lifts her hands up to rest against his chest. “I’m being serious.”

“Then what would you like? If not a willing slave?”

“A king.”

“You have one.”

Smiling, Sarah nods contentedly. “Good. Then may I ask something of my king?”

“You may ask, wish, or command. However posed, I still live to serve as your humble king.”

Leaning up on her tiptoes, Sarah kisses him again, as soft and sweet as the roses she convinced him to start growing the year before. “Jareth,” she whispers, her mouth barely a breath away from his own parted lips, “Will you marry me?”

His breath catches and he leans away to stare at her in shock and awe. It is tradition for the king to ask his bride for her hand, but Sarah has never been one to do things the ‘proper’ way. She only does them as she sees fit, and it’s one of the countless reasons why he loves her.

He can’t help, however, to say instead of ‘yes’, “I’m supposed to ask you.”

She shrugs, “Yes, well, you were taking forever.”

Unable to help himself, he laughs at that. “Yes, I suppose I was.”

“So?” She asks, and for once she seems uncertain that she might get her way. She has marched up to his throne and asked-on behalf of his subjects- for a variety of things. She has demanded he take her to her prom, kiss her, select a university, make love to her under starlight, sing to her, hold her in her moments of vulnerability, and countless other demands and requests. And every time she has approached him with the certainty that he will do as she says.

He can hardly believe that after all this time, she would doubt him now.

“Have I ever said no to you, Precious?” He asks her instead. She thinks for a moment, then nods.

“You refused to let the goblins arrange a Chick-an’-go-Seek league.”

“Because that is a stupid idea and I cannot believe you even agreed to ask me!” He cries. “I already have to deal with chickens everywhere as it is! I’m not about to authorize them to hide in my-”

He’s cut off by her lips on his, and it dawns on him that perhaps she likes to tease him just as much as he does her.

“Yes or no, Goblin King.”

He sobers and tugs her even closer to him. “As if I could say no to you, Precious. Of course we’ll marry.” 

She grins. “Good.” 

Of course they will. He lives to serve after all. Anything Sarah wants from him, it is hers.

She’s already had it all along.


End file.
